


But Life Still Goes On

by Rose_of_Pollux



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alexander the Greater Affair, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24740686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: [Coda to the Season 2 opener, “Alexander the Greater Affair”] The case is closed at last, but something is still on Napoleon’s mind.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683037
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	But Life Still Goes On

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the “Scar to remember” prompt at badthingshappenbingo.

Napoleon was glad to be away from that party—away from the embassy, away from that crowd, away from Tracey, the now-merry widow, and even away from Waverly at this point. After everything he and Illya had been through on that case, compounded with the fact that he had, technically failed in bringing their quarry to justice (it was only sheer, dumb luck that Kavon had betrayed his employer, leading to both of their deaths after Napoleon had failed in capturing them), Napoleon was more than ready to close the case and forget the whole thing. But forgetting it was easier said than done.

He stewed and seethed in his silk pajamas, withdrawn in the chair of the hotel room that he and Illya would be staying in that night before heading back to New York the next day. He wouldn’t be allowed to forget until he wrote the mission report, he realized. And even then—would he be able to forget? Something about this case was gnawing on his mind, making him upset and restless about the whole affair.

It wasn’t being thrown around by that dumb muscled henchman, or even when he’d been tied to that stone slab with the pendulum blade swinging towards him, oh no—getting over _that_ would be simple enough.

Was it because he had, technically, failed the mission? Partly, he realized. But there was something else, too…

The sound of the shower still running the bathroom made him realize what it was. Illya never took long, hot showers, yet he’d been in there just short of an hour now—no doubt trying to rid himself of the chemicals on his skin left over from Kavon’s bizarre mummification experiment.

That was it, Napoleon realized. _That_ was why he was so upset—that he hadn’t arrived sooner—that he hadn’t been able to stop it from happening.

The shower finally stopped, and a few minutes later, Illya emerged, wearing a bathrobe as he toweled his hair dry. His nose, cheeks, and ears were still bright pink from the exposure to the hot water.

“How do you feel?” Napoleon asked.

“Finally clean,” Illya said, relief evident in his voice. “I am still not a fan of hot showers, but I had to make sure my pores were open and free from whatever that concoction was. How do _you_ feel?”

“Me? I’m fine—why wouldn’t I be?”

“From whatever happened to you in that gymnasium, not to mention falling out of an airplane—”

“I had a parachute.”

“Nevertheless…” Illya said. “Something appears to be troubling you.”

Napoleon rested his chin on his hand, sighing quietly. Of course, Illya would be more concerned about him, regardless of whatever he’d been through.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stop—”

“You saved me before Kavon could do anything worse to me,” Illya insisted. “Any physical traces of the mummification are now washed away, and I have you, and you alone, to thank for that.”

“And what about the mental traces?” Napoleon asked, getting up from his chair. “You were stripped and wrapped up by that madman. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Illya glanced at him with an even expression.

“I will be,” he promised. “That was the worst that had happened.” He blinked as Napoleon’s scowl deepened. “…I appreciate your righteous fury for the sake of my modesty. But surely you know this is not to be unexpected? THRUSH certainly has no qualms about preserving our dignity—why should any other enemy we face do so?”

“I know, _I know_ ,” Napoleon said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be upset about it, right?”

“Naturally. You are upset. And jealous.”

Napoleon went red.

“I am _not_ jealous—”

“You are, because I have felt the same way when similar fates have befallen you,” Illya said, with a wave of his hand. “The scars on your back, for instance—the ones that Shark gave you last year.” The Russian’s expression darkened. “They had stripped you to the waist, humiliated you by holding your head in those men’s legs, and then whipped you, in spite of my efforts to stop it.”

Napoleon blinked; he had almost forgotten about that. He undid his pajama top and removed it, standing with his back to the mirror as Illya went on. He looked over his shoulder, crinkling his nose as he saw the scars. More than once, he had considered plastic surgery in the aftermath of that affair last year, but as the weeks—and then months—moved on, he had pushed it to the back of his mind.

…Illya, clearly, had not, and he continued his piece about it—

“I see your scars more than you do,” he said. “Perhaps it was a reprieve to you that it was only your back that was marred. But I see them, and know that it was because I had failed to stop that madman from giving you both the pain and the indignity.”

He walked over and gently placed his hand over Napoleon’s back, feeling the scars. And Napoleon felt a jolt of electricity go down his spine. Illya’s hand was still wonderfully warm from his hot shower.

“In time, I will put what happened to me today behind me,” Illya assured him. “…But I doubt _you_ fully will, as I fully haven’t put the Shark Affair behind me. That is the price we pay for allowing our hearts to open to others.”

“…I don’t mind,” Napoleon said.

And Illya managed a smile.

“Nor do I.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment; Illya did not move his hand from Napoleon’s back, but he did step closer. Napoleon could smell the water and scented soap on his partner, and his throat tightened.

“Illya…?”

“I thank you for your concern,” he purred. “And for the rescue. Get the light, won’t you?”

Napoleon opened his mouth to say something, but remained silent as Illya crossed to the bed. He soon recovered, flicking the light as he joined him.

Healing, he realized, came in different ways.


End file.
